


can what is broken ever be repaired?

by beautifullights



Series: everyone has scars [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst with a Happy Ending, Captivity, Courage, Desire, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone is going to be ok, Falling In Love, Fluff, Gen, Hurt Poe Dameron, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Recovery, Slow Burn, Torture, Whump, mental healthcare...in space!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-12 15:06:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5670289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifullights/pseuds/beautifullights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His mind had been raped, invaded, incinerated. He had betrayed the only cause he'd ever believed in. How could he go on?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a new name to chant

**Author's Note:**

> My first fanfic ever. Super nervous about this. Concrits please please please! I thought this would be a Stormpilot fic but then it took off in a totally different direction than I had intended. But it's never too late to add some more ptsd/hurt/comfort/fluff/smut/love. Let me know if you'd like me to add chapters and/or make changes.
> 
> If you're new to this series, all I can say is...bear with me, please? This fic was my first and it's definitely not as good as I would like it to be. I don't want to delete it, for posterity, but...well.....just don't give up on me, please? Feel free to skip ahead to [Now, Right Now, We Are Alive](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8021125); [You Promise Me, My Life](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6051894/chapters/13874562); or [Fly Home to Me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7087519/chapters/16109356).

He leans in close. “I need a ride,” he whispers.

“Where to?” The smuggler looks him up and down and then frowns suddenly, face sharpening in recognition. “Wait—are you Poe? Poe Dameron? What the hell do you need a pilot for?”

Poe can’t look him in the eye. “I don’t. I just need a ship. But I assume you’d rather fly your own.”

“Back to the Resistance base, huh?”

Poe shakes his head. “No, no. Out of here. To—to the Outer Rim, maybe. Just--out of here.”

The man considers Poe carefully. “Why? Don’t they need you? Best pilot in the Resistance. Hell, best pilot in the galaxy.”

Poe shakes his head again. “No. I just need to get to the Outer Rim. How much do you want for it?”

“For the Resistance hero? Nothing. But--why aren’t you going back? We need all the help we can get against those First Order scum. Did you hear what they did here a few weeks ago? Massacred a whole village, murdered Lor—”

Poe cuts him off. “I know. I was there.”

“You were—then you know what really happened? There were no eyewitnesses. We didn’t even hear until the market caravan arrived here and told us they were all gone.”

“Yeah, they’re gone. Now I need a ride to the Outer Rim. Please. How much do you want for it?”

The man leans back in his chair. “Why are you leaving the Resistance?”

Poe is looking at his cup, turning it over and over in his hands. “That’s classified. I was told you offer rides without questions. Are you done asking questions?”

Suddenly the man is in his face, breath hot and alcoholic. “I don’t know what you’re playing around with here, Dameron. The First Order killed my wife and child just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. You can’t leave the Resistance. They need you. _We_ need you. What’s going on?”

Poe’s face is in his hands. “I can’t go back to the Resistance. I betrayed them.”

The man is close enough to hear his whisper. He freezes. “You _what_?”

The words are spilling out of him, bile and vomit and toxins. “I betrayed them. I was at that village. They captured me, tortured me.That was nothing. But then Kylo—” He can’t say the name. “He—I—he _did_ something to me, something to my head, I— I couldn’t stop it. I broke. I betrayed the Resistance, gave them the information they wanted. This stormtrooper saved me, but—we crashed. He died. Now I’m alone. I can’t go back to the Resistance. Not now, not ever.” Poe finds himself crying, relief and pain all mixed together. “So either you take me to the Outer Rim or I steal a ship here, fly it to the nearest First Order base, and take out as many as I can before they kill me. I’m done. I’m wasted. It’s over.”

The man is silent. Poe is gulping, throat raw from torture and sand and despair, trying to pull himself together. “You’re a coward. Poe Dameron, hero of the Resistance, is a kriffing bloody coward.”

Poe lifts his head. “What? Of course I’m a coward. I broke, I couldn’t take it—”

“That’s not what I mean.” The man’s voice is an angry hiss. “Kylo Ren—” he pretends not to notice how Poe flinches at the name— “he’s a Jedi. I don’t know what the fuckers do, but I know they’re powerful. Mere humanoids like us—we don’t stand a chance against them. Of course you broke when he tortured you. What else did you expect? But being too scared to go back to the Resistance? _That_ , hot-wings, is nothing but cowardice.”

“The General. Facing her, saying what I did—”

“Can’t be any worse then being tortured by the First Order, can it? That was— _nothing_ , didn’t you say? If you did something wrong, you need to face up to it. Go back. Tell them what you did. Submit to trial, execution if that’s what they decide. A suicide mission, if they order it. More honorable than killing yourself with alcohol in the Outer Rim, isn’t it? If there’s been an information breach, they need to know, Poe. You have to go back.”

Poe looked up at him at last, eyes rimmed red, face bruised and bloody. “I can’t.”  
The man stared him down, eyes forceful and sharp. “You have to.”

 

()()()()()

 

“State your name.”

“Poe Dameron.” He’s hoarse with fear.

“Security clearance?” He can hear voices in the commlink’s background, shouting with astonishment. He gives the last code he remembers, more than three weeks old. There’s a slight pause, and then, “Cleared to land in bay 478. Proceed with caution.”

The smuggler lands the ship with ease and looks over at him. “Get out, hot-wings. Ride’s over. I’ve got a cargo to fly.”

Poe is frozen in place. His ears are ringing. Slowly he stands.

The man reaches up to shake his hand. “I forgot. I meant to say this earlier. It’s nice to meet you, Poe Dameron. I’ve heard about your exploits. No matter what happened, and no matter what happens now, you’re a good pilot. A good fighter. I’m glad I got to meet you.”

Poe stares at him in silence. Finally he shakes his hand, turns on his heel, and walks out of the ship.

The moment his feet touch solid ground, the ship’s landing platform folds up and back into the belly of the junked-up freighter. Two Resistance pilots in bright orange and white are running out of the base towards him, followed closely by a regal woman with a halo of braids. The General.

“Poe! Poe Dameron, we thought you were dead! What happened to your ship? Do you have the map?”

He can’t speak.

“Dameron.” Her voice is very serious. “What happened to you?”

He has to say it. Has to say it _now_ , before he loses his nerve. “I betrayed the Resistance.” His tongue stings like the words are poison. “They caught me. They tortured me. I broke. Ky—” He sees Leia’s eyes tighten at the name. “I broke. I have come back to submit myself for trial and execution. Please, General.” Poe falls to his knees and cries. “Please just do it.”

Leia is staring into the distance. Finally she turns back to him. “Ben tortured you?” Her voice rasps.

He closes his eyes with shame. “Yes.”

“He used the Force on you? I’ve heard reports of his mind-control abilities.”

“Yes.” The memory of the black gloved hand reaching into his mind, pulling out memory after memory of his mother dying, his father dying, his house burning, his pilots dying, the map, the droid, burning through his mental defenses, cracking through his identity, his self, his heart, incinerating all that made him _Poe_ —

“Poe.” The General is shaking him. He blinks, disoriented. Leia hauls him up in front of her, sharp eyes scanning him for wounds. “You did nothing wrong. There’s nothing else you could have done—”

“I betrayed you!” He shouts the words, chest raw with pain.

“Dameron.” Her voice pulls him to attention. “Dameron. Listen to me. You will report to the medbay immediately for initial emergency treatment. If you are deemed fit to stand trial, I will meet you in the judging room in sixty minutes. I will assemble a jury. Do you understand?”

He salutes. Her eyes catch the raw scars on his wrists from the restraints and tighten again in sympathy. He ignores this and marches off, eyes straight ahead, ignoring his fellow pilots’ calls.

 

()()()()()

 

He enters the judging room slowly, careful of the bandages covering his wrists, head, and thighs. His head is spinning from thought to thought--why are there no bandages for the mind? what would be the best First Order base to go on a suicide mission to, and how would he do the most damage before he died? was there an afterlife? if so, would he see the stormtrooper there?

“Dameron.” The head juror is an unfamiliar face. He scans the room. Somehow the General managed to find twenty people on the base he has never met. “Sit down.”

He sits. Only the General is in attendance, along with two deputies for witnesses. “State your case.”

He does. He has to stop halfway through, leave the room suddenly to find a fresher where he can be sick. He wipes his mouth, cleans his hands, does not look at his face in the mirror. He returns to the judging room to finish his story. When he is done, the room is silent. He stares at his hands.

“Please leave the room.”

He sits in a chair outside the room, waiting for judgement. The hall is deserted. At the end is a locked door. He is not cuffed--he shudders. He would not be able to bear that. But he is locked in, all the same. Something goes unhinged in his head and he is running, banging on the door, pleading to get out. Pleading—

Behind him, the judging door opens. He turns. “Please return to the room.” The head juror is impassive, polite, waits for him to resume his seat.

“You have pleaded guilty to one count of high treason by betraying important information to the enemy. However, we have information on Ren’s”--he flinches, but the juror proceeds relentlessly— “interrogation techniques. They are reported to be impossible to withstand by any humanoid, possibly any sentient being in the galaxy. You were captured by an entire First Order squadron: there was nothing you could have done. You were interrogated by a Jedi Master: there was nothing you could have done. You are therefore absolved of any personal guilt in the matter. We are grieved to hear about the loss of information to the enemy; however, we are also grieved to hear of your suffering at the hands of the First Order. Your record remains clear of all crimes. You are to report back to the medbay for a thorough examination and healing. Once cleared for action, you are to resume your duties as Black Leader. Do you understand this judgement?”

 _What?_ He is fiercely dizzy, his head is pounding, black spots begin to obscure his vision. He puts his head between his knees and tries not to faint. At last he can sit up again, still reeling. “General.” He addresses her desperately. “General. I betrayed you. I—”

“Do you question the authority of this court?” Her voice is sharp as ever.

He stares at her. “General, they broke me. I told them. I can’t--I can’t come back. I can’t fly for the Resistance again.”

“Dameron.” She crosses to his chair, takes his chin in her hand, forces him to look into her eyes. “The Court of the Resistance has forgiven you. As your General, I have forgiven you. In the eyes of the Resistance, the matter is now closed.” Her eyes are suddenly glittering. “Poe. Thirty years ago I was tortured by the Empire. I have not forgotten what it feels like. It will take time for you to forgive yourself.”

“I don’t think I can.” He is still hoarse from screaming.

“You will.” Her voice is steel again. “You will, because we need you, Dameron. They have the map to Luke.” Her eyes flicker in pain, but the fierceness remains. “But they haven’t killed him yet, nor caused him pain or fear or anger. I would have sensed it. So he’s all right, for now. We can keep looking. We’ll find some other way. But to do so, _I will need you._ So you will find a way to live with yourself. _Do you understand me?_ ”

His eyes are stinging. “You were going to forgive me all along, weren’t you? This court was just a show.”

She raises one graying brow, but a smile quirks on her face. “I assure you that it was a real court. You may view the records if you like. But yes, I would have forgiven you anyway. We all would have. I hoped an official judgement might make that process easier.”

Poe bows his head in silence. “I will find him,” he rasps at last. “I swear to you. I will find him. I will protect you all. I will do whatever I can.”

“Good.” She extends a hand to him. He takes it, grateful, still unsteady on his feet. “Now go. Medbay. Now.” She looks him up and down. “Do you need an escort?”

Poe shakes his head. All he wants is to be alone, to curl up into a ball and cry with gratitude and pain and relief and shame and hope and fear. Slowly he makes his way to the medbay, praying he doesn’t pass out before he gets there.

 

()()()()()

 

He’s still in the medbay two hours later, submitting to a med droid’s ministrations to the scars on his wrists, when he hears the news. “Dameron.” It’s the General herself, eyes lit with a joyful light he hasn’t seen in them in years. “They’ve found the droid. It’s on Takodana, with a young female, a young male, and—” She takes a deep breath. “And an older male, possibly— possibly Han.”

Poe is standing, grasping her arms, bursting out of his skin. “So BB-8 is safe? Not with the First Order?”

“Yet,” she warns. “Are you cleared for action yet?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Poe is bouncing on his toes, ready to fight. “I’m going. We’re all going. We’re taking it back.” There is a fierce anger in him now, an anger born of night after night interrupted by torture or nightmares. “There’s a ship for me, right?”

The General smiles. “Of course there is. Go find your crew.”

 

()()()()()

 

He flies better than he ever has. There is a new name he chants now, along with his mother’s and his father’s and the names of all the pilots he’s ever lost in a fight. _This is for Finn. For Finn. Finn. I will kill you all for what you did to him._ The fight is over soon. The castle is destroyed, but they are victorious. He hears on the comms that they have the droid, and Solo, and a young male humanoid named Finn—

 

()()()()()

 

“Poe. Poe Dameron, you’re alive.” There’s an intensity to the man’s words, like Poe is his only anchor left. Poe crushes the man to him and starts to think that maybe the feeling is mutual. "You saved my life, you—" This is the man who rescued him, saved his cause, saved his honor. “You completed my mission.” The words seem so small, compared to the rushing relief and gratitude that floods him. How can he ever repay this service?

“Keep the jacket,” he says. It’s the only thing he has to give, right now. “It suits you.” He bites his lip to keep his stupid mouth from saying anything more. “You’re a good man, Finn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oscar Isaac is my soulmate forever and ever amen hallelujah.
> 
> Oh god I'm so nervous.


	2. anchors

Adrenaline holds him up until they land back on D’Qar, victorious and exhausted and grieving. Poe runs after the hovergurney carrying Finn’s limp body, trying to keep breathing. The Force will maintain balance, right? And right now too many people he knows and loves are dead. This man, this savior, this _Finn_ — he has to stay alive. For Rey’s sake. For all their sake. And especially for Poe’s sake. He watches Rey leave with a soft touch to Finn’s unresponsive cheek and the bottom falls out of his life.

Of course they’re in love. They’re young, they saved each other’s lives, they survived a horrific battle together. Of course they’re meant to be together. Poe wonders if Rey knows about the old prohibitions against Jedi romantic attachments, wonders if perhaps they will be waived for her, now that there is no Jedi council to forbid her from loving. The medbay is quiet; it’s night again, and Poe is still here, watching, waiting, praying, breathing. He does not sleep. He does not need to sleep. He will wait until Finn wakes up. He does not want to miss a single heartbeat.

 

()()()()()

 

The General visits in the morning. Her face is lined with grief, but her eyes are strong as ever. “Poe. Why aren’t you in your bed?”

He shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

She folds her arms across her chest. “When’s the last time you slept?”

That question is too silly to answer.

“Ate?”

Irrelevant.

“Dameron. As your General, I am ordering you to go to sleep and eat a full meal before you return here. Finn will be fine. The meddroids are looking after him.”

“So am I.”

“Dameron. Are you disobeying my orders?”

“You always say that the Resistance’s best strength is that its soldiers think for themselves, they don’t just follow orders—”

“Poe Dameron. Get up.”

He stands. A rush of dizziness overwhelms him— a head rush, nothing more. It’ll pass in a moment. Poe braces himself against the wall, casually, just making sure he remains upright and she doesn’t notice his sudden unsteadiness. But it’s not passing, and he can’t quite see, and he’s not quite sure where he is, and—

 

()()()()()

 

He wakes up slowly, groggily. His whole side _aches_ , as though covered in bruises. He moves to rub it, confused—

He is _trapped_. His arms are bound to the bed, bound across his chest, his legs also, he is trapped and they have him again and they will torture him again and the black-gloved hand is stretching out, grabbing his mind, tearing at his thoughts, ripping him apart. Poe _screams_ , thrashing in his bonds, insane with terror. Distant voices shout above him; he pleads with them, begs _no, no, no, please, no_. A sharp needle pricks his arm. Poe screams again, wild with fear. He can feel the drug seeping slowly through his blood, dragging at his limbs, paralyzing him in place. His thoughts are foggy, sluggish. They are weakening him. They are weakening him before he comes back to take more. He will not betray the Resistance again. He will die first. _The Resistance will not be intimidated by you_ , he snarls, but his tongue won’t cooperate. His thoughts slow, then stop.

 

()()()()()

 

He wakes again. A face looms above him. A distant part of his brain screams in terror, frantic to fight back, escape, resist, but it cannot get through to the control center of his body. He cannot move. His thoughts start and stop again, fuzzy. Poe blinks. The face is familiar. Soothing.

“Poe. _Poe_. Can you hear me?”

He nods. It takes a long time. Dr. Kalonia. That’s the name.

“Poe. I need you to pay attention.”

He nods again, squinting to see her against the bright lights.

“Poe. You’re ok. You’re on D’Qar. You passed out yesterday from exhaustion and lack of nutrition. We placed you on a cot in the medbay to sleep and recover. You had a nightmare, a bad one. You fell out of bed, hit a couple of the nurses who came to help you. We had place you in restrictive care to keep you from getting hurt again. I’m so sorry about that, Poe.” Her face twists with pain and guilt. “I’m so sorry. It didn’t occur to me that it could cause a flashback. You weren’t responsive, so we sedated you. What you’re feeling right now is a calming solution. It will wear off in a few hours and you’ll be right back to normal. I took you off the sedative, so you should regain feeling within the next half hour. You’ll have to stay on the IV for another few hours— your fluid and electrolyte levels were dangerously low. A meddroid will come to remove it when you’ve stablized.”

Poe stares at her.

“Poe. Can you hear me? Do you understand?”

Poe nods. It is minutely easier this time. Her face twists again, and he wonders what expression is frozen onto his numb features. “I’m so sorry, Poe. Please forgive me. You’ll be all right, I promise.”

His thoughts are beginning to return. He still feels distant, vague, numb.

 _Finn_. Lying there, in the medbay, unmoving. He tries to shape the words, but he can’t quite figure out how. Dr. Kalonia stops on her way out the door and looks back over her shoulder. “Oh, and your friend will live. Finn. He’ll be out of it for a while, but we’ve got him stabilized. He’ll recover.”

He can breathe fully for the first time in days. _Thank you_. He closes his eyes.

 

()()()()()

 

He must have dozed off, because he wakes again with a start. Reason is returning, as is feeling, both in his mind and in his body. He moves cautiously, braced to feel the straps again binding him against his will— but there is nothing. He checks each limb: intact, functioning, responsive again. He checks his mind:

_My name is Poe Dameron. I fly for the Resistance. I was born on Yavin 4. My ship is a T-70 X-wing and my astromech is named BB-8._

The events of the past 24 hours slowly return to him. He winces, mortified. So that’s why his side was one solid bruise. He’d fallen out of bed. With a nightmare. And hurt two nurses— he felt awful. And humiliated himself in front of the medical team and whoever else was watching. And then had a serious flashback upon finding himself bound to the bed. Well, that at least was fair, he thinks. Whose kriffing twisted idea was it to tie someone up while they slept? But still. He had no idea that was even possible, that he was capable of violence while not in his right mind, that his body could be in one place while his mind was so completely in another. He realizes he is deliberately avoiding thinking about what he had felt at the time, what he had been remembering. Carefully he reaches out and touched the memory— and jumps away from it like it was an engine fire. He cannot think about it. He will not think about it. He closes his eyes tightly, welding himself back into his body with the strongest steel rivets he could find. He is here. He is Poe. He is alive. And he will be ok.

He stands up carefully, not looking at the needle in his arm or the clear tubes or the bag of dripping fluids. Slowly he walks out of the tiny room, ignoring his still slightly off-kilter coordination, wheeling the IV pole behind him. He steps down the hall, checking in each little window, until he finds the one he wants.

Finn.

He stays there for a moment, just looking at his face, watching his chest rise and fall. Finally he opens the door, slides inside, sinks gratefully onto the chair by the bed. “Finn.” He is surprised to hear his voice rasp, hoarse, as if he’d been screaming for— He shuts that thought down. “Finn.” He reaches out to take his friend’s hand, holds onto to it tightly. An anchor. His anchor.

His whole body aches, bruised and lacerated and wasted and exhausted. His mind feels worse, if that was even possible. But sitting here, holding Finn’s hand, listening to the slow _beep beep beep_ of his heartrate monitor, he feels almost whole again. They are here. They are alive. And they will be ok.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your encouragement! You guys have totally made my day. I would love to hear any concrits you have.


	3. i can't lose you too

The door hisses open. Poe jerks awake, unsure how long he has been dozing. There is a sharp crick in the back of his neck; a slightly tenser note than the aching buzz that has overwhelmed his body.

“Poe.” It's Dr. Kalonia. He keeps his eyes fixed on Finn, his back turned towards the door. He can feel hairs rise on the back of his neck. He wills himself to stay sane, but he is not quite sure what commlink channel he can find _sane_ on. “I would like to apologize again. Please forgive me. I am a doctor; I was trained to treat the body first, and the mind second. Most of my patients, particularly the pilots— you’ve said it yourself, Poe. Pilots tend to come back in one piece or not at all. I can count on one hand the number of captives who’ve escaped since… since Leia herself, I think. I’d forgotten the particular consequences of such treatment. In my rush to treat you, I forgot that your injuries are primarily psychological, not physical. I swear, Poe, I _swear_ —” Poe turns to her. “I will not make that mistake again. Unless your life is in grave danger, I will not do anything without your full consent.”

He nods, jerkily, not quite trusting his voice to remain steady yet. She nods back. “I have arranged for you to meet with a psytech today. It’s time we started working on getting you back to yourself.” Poe looks away. He has met with psytechs before, after bad crash landings and narrow escapes and losing large numbers of his fleet. They will ask him to talk about what happened. He cannot do that. He turns his eyes back to Finn, Finn, Finn, and breathes in deeply, slowly, taking strength from his friend’s prone form.

“Oh, and the solutions will have worn off completely by now. They would have lasted until around 0300, and it’s nearly 0600 now. Whatever you’re feeling, Poe, is completely your own.”

Something deep inside his body begins to relax at that. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Dr Kalonia summons a nurse and meddroid on her commlink. “We have to change his bandages now. You’ll want to leave for this.”

Poe shakes his head, feeling his body rooted tightly to the room, to its occupant. Dr Kalonia’s lips twitch upwards. “He’s lucky to have such friends. You, and Rey. With such love surrounding him, he’ll get better in no time.” She and the nurse peel back the sheets, roll Finn onto his stomach, open the back of his gown, carefully ease off the thick layer of bandages. Poe flinches, bracing for it, but the smell of roasted flesh has dissipated, replaced by the cloyingly medicinal sweetness of bacta. The dermal regenerator has been working well; light patches of newer skin jag across his back. The deep incision remains, edges still black and crumbling. Poe pinches the web between his thumb and finger, forcing himself not to be sick. With another thick application of bacta, the bandages are replaced and Finn is wrapped up again in layers of gauze, gown, and sheets.

The nurse turns to Poe next, cautiously, and Poe notices the fading darkness around her eye. _Shit_. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. She smiles and pats his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Dameron. You’re not the first.” He clenches his teeth and looks away as she slides the IV out of his arm. Needles. He never used to be scared of them.

“You’re cleared to leave medical, Dameron,” Dr. Kalonia announces. “Your vitals have stabilized. But you _need_ to eat a full meal, and you _need_ to sleep through a full night.” Poe ignores this. She snorts, frustrated. “Right. Dameron. Look at me.” He does. “If you do not follow my orders, I will completely revoke your visiting privileges. _I will kick you out of this room._ Is that clear?”

He does not need to sleep. He does not need to eat. He needs his body to be his again. He needs his _mind_ to be his again. He needs Finn to wake up.

She waits.

“I can’t leave him.” The words are a faint whisper.

Dr. Kalonia purses her mouth. Finally she sighs and signals to the nurse. “Bring in a cot for the commander. And breakfast.” She points a long finger at Poe’s nose. “Remember the rules. I do not make idle threats.”

Poe nods. At the thought of staying here, in this room, with this Finn, he can feel something finally starting to loosen in him. He will keep watch. He will guard Finn from the chance that he might never wake up. And Finn will guard him from himself.

 

()()()()()

 

“Morning, Dameron.”

Poe straightens in his seat, sets aside his empty breakfast tray, nods. “Morning, General.”

“Dr Kalonia briefed me on the events of last night.”

Poe rubs at his face, closes his eyes. The General has never been one to beat around the bush. _Small talk wastes time, Dameron. We can’t afford any waste._ He clears his throat. “Don’t worry about it, General. It won’t happen again. I promise.”

“Have you been to see a psytech yet?”

Stupid questions waste time, too. He is silent.

“Poe.” Her voice is gentle, caring; Poe can hear his mother saying his name in that same voice. He shakes his head, staring at the wall beyond her. She sighs and shifts straight back into General mode. “Dameron. I’ve always admired your bravery. Your total fearlessness, no matter how outnumbered we may be. So I find myself completely astounded at your sudden change of heart. What is a psytech, compared to a fleet of TIE fighters?”

He can see the reflection of the heart monitor in the chrome-paneled door. He stares at it, small green line spiking up, then down, then up, then down—

“Dameron, I am tired of giving you speeches!” He jerks back to attention at the General’s shout. Her eyes are grieving, pained, rimmed with red. “Either you come back to us or you don’t. I can’t—” The room is silent. _Beep._ Poe’s hands are shaking. _Beep._ “I’ve lost almost everyone.” Her voice remains steady, but Poe can see the strain in her shoulders. “I can’t lose you too.”

 

()()()()()

 

Poe jerks awake, disoriented. Was he napping? Medbay. D’Qar. Finn. _Finn._ His rescuer gasps, choking, and Poe realizes with a hot rush of adrenaline what woke him. “Finn!” Poe lurches up out of his chair, leans over the bed, lifts his friend’s head. Finn coughs again, gasps for breath, struggles to move. “Hey. Hey. Buddy. It’s ok. You’re ok. You’re safe. You’re free. You’re alive. I’m here.” Poe takes long, slow, breaths, takes his friend’s hand, holds it tightly. Finn shakes his head, groggy, mumbles something. His eyelids flicker open and shut. “Finn.” Poe’s face is wet, his heart hurts, his hand in Finn’s feels like nothing else in the galaxy. “Finn.”

Finn’s eyes open. They land on Poe, confused and tired and desperate and lost. “Finn. Buddy.” Poe’s free hand twitches, wanting to touch Finn’s face, verify that he was here and he was real and he was alive. “Good to have you back.”

 _Poe._ Finn’s lips form his name, too exhausted to speak. Poe’s lips tremble into a smile. His sight blurs with relief. “Finn. Buddy. You’re alive.” A meddroid is already rolling in, alerted by the monitors, Dr. Kalonia and a nurse following quickly behind. They shove him aside to run tests on Finn, who protests Poe's absence with the faintest of grunts. Rolling her eyes, Dr. Kalonia motions Poe back to Finn’s bed. “Stay out of the way, Dameron.” Poe wastes no time in complying, grabbing onto to Finn’s hand again and pressing his back against the wall.

Finn is mouthing a word. Poe leans closer. “Rey?” Finn nods. “She’s fine, buddy. She’s going after Luke. She wanted me to say hi to you when you woke. So, hi.”

Finn smiles shakily and tries another word. “Han?” Poe closes his eyes, puts a gentle hand on Finn’s shoulder. “They say you saw it happen.” Finn nods, eyes glittering. “I’m so sorry, buddy.” His throat is tight. There is still a question in Finn’s eyes, a desperate worry as he tracks the movements of the nurse and doctor around his body. They gently roll him onto his back, peel off the bandages, apply a new layer of bacta, secure a fresh wrapping around him, lay him down gently onto the soft mattress. Finally Dr. Kalonia steps back, peels off her gloves.

Finn’s hand is clenching Poe’s, grinding his bones together. Poe does not protest. He can feel a desperate tension vibrating up and down his own body as well. “Finn.” Dr. Kalonia smiles. “You’re going to make a complete recovery. Everything looks good. I was a bit worried there— your injuries were quite extensive, after all, and it’s highly unusual for anyone to survive a lightsaber attack, so there’s not a lot of medical knowledge out there about them. But everything is healing as it should. You won’t have full use of that shoulder for another two weeks, at least, and it will take about twice that long for the synthebrae and reattached nerves in your spine to fully connect to your brain, after which it will take another month or two for you to relearn how to walk and rebuild your musculature. Do you have any questions?”

Finn looks up at Poe. Poe recognizes the drowning look in his eyes— he’s pretty sure he’s had the same look in his eyes the past few days. Possibly still does. “Buddy?” he asks softly. Finn closes his eyes.

“I have a question.” Poe straightens and looks toward the doctor. “Why can’t he speak?”

Dr. Kalonia smiles. “That should return in the next few days. After being in a medicoma so long, it takes the brain some time to reactivate. It’s a process somewhat similar to hibernation sickness. If you’d like, Finn, we can provide a holopad so you can write—”

She breaks off suddenly and smiles. Poe looks down and sees Finn out cold again, chest rising and falling under the white medbay sheets with a regularity as beautiful and soothing as the quiet hum of an X-wing. "I'll come back in a few hours to check in on him again. Comm us if he needs anything." She sweeps out of the room with the nurse and droid in tow.

The door hisses shut. They are alone, the room is quiet, the monitors beep, Finn's eyes are closed—but he's alive. 

Poe sinks back into his chair beside the bed, holding tightly to Finn's hand. He can feel his world starting to settle into place again. Finn was awake. Finn was alive. Finn would be whole. " _Buddy_ ," he whispers. " _Buddy._ I'm so glad you're back."


	4. show me hope

Poe hovers in the doorway.

The mindhealer looks up at him and smiles. “Commander Dameron. Good to see you. Please, come in. Take a seat. I’m Dr. Eila.”

Poe hovers in the doorway.

The mindhealer waits.

Poe turns to leave.

The mindhealer is silent.

Poe turns back suddenly. “Look, is this really necessary?” he bursts out. “I’m not going to talk about what happened. I’m not going to. I’m just— look, everyone gets hurt by war, right? War changes people. We know this. So I’m changed now. So what. Other people are hurting, too. I can still fly. I can still shoot.” A hot rush of anger rises in his throat at this thought. His fists clench on the trigger of an X-wing blaster. “It’ll pass in time. I’ll be fine.”

Dr. Eila leans back in her chair, unruffled. “So why are you here, then?”

Poe’s shoulders hunch up, down. “Dr. Kalonia’s orders.”

Raised brows. “She didn’t order you to do so. No one can be ordered to seek treatment. Including from a mindhealer. She may have made an appointment and a strong suggestion, but neither she nor I can compel you to stay in this room.”

Poe hovers in the doorway. He stares at the mindhealer. His mouth opens. Closes.

And suddenly he is sinking forward, curling in on himself, sliding down the doorjamb, hunching on the floor, knees to his chest, face buried in his arms, all limbs trembling, breath shuddering in his throat, tears stinging in the cuts on his face and hands. He hears the door hiss shut behind him, feels the mindhealer sit down beside him, lean back against the wall, silent, waiting.

He is not sure how long he sits there. Eventually the shaking eases, and the tears slow, and he begins to regain control. He can hear the soft breath of the mindhealer sitting next to him. Poe breathes. It is all he can do, these days. He breathes, and he waits, and he tries to return to himself.

“I can’t stop it,” he whispers at last, not sure who he is speaking to. “I just can’t stop. I’m not sure I’ll ever stop crying. Ever sleep through the night. Ever not be afraid.”

In the corner of his eye he can see the mindhealer nod, quiet, listening.

“I’m so afraid,” he whispers, so softly even he is not sure he can hear it.

“Of what?” Dr. Eila asks, equally soft.

“Everything.” Poe rubs his face with his hands, feels the tired ache of his muscles beneath his skin. “Everything! I was the best fucking pilot in the Resistance, I was going to crush the First Order with everything I had, and now I’m— now— now I’m just broken.” The mindhealer rests her chin on a fist, eyes focused on Poe. Poe lifts his head, stares blankly at the opposite wall, closes his eyes, drops his head back down to his knees.

“You will get better, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Dr. Eila says at last, quiet but sure. “I know it doesn’t feel like that now. And it will take a long time, and a lot of hard work. But you will get better. And you don’t strike me as a man who’d ever get scared off by hard work.”

Poe looks at her. Dr. Eila smiles suddenly and raises one brow. “And before you accuse me, no, I’m not just saying that so you’ll feel better. I don’t do that. No one here does, Poe.” She stares him down. Her eyes are arresting, dark and gray and deep. “Do you believe me?”

“No.”

She laughs, smiles warmly. “Thanks for being honest, Poe. Really. That will help.” She stands, offers a hand, palm upraised. He takes it, rises, sinks into the chair she offers, leans tiredly onto the table between them, runs a hand through his unruly hair. She sits across from him, focused and erect. “So. What exactly is the problem?”

Poe shrugs, looks away. “Flashbacks. Nightmares.”

Dr. Eila nods. “And?”

Poe shakes his head. “That’s it.”

She nods again. “Ok. It looks like you might also be feeling some intense despair, right now.”

Poe stares fixedly across the room, willing himself not to break down again. It works. Something in his head goes numb and cold, but it works.

Dr. Eila waits for him. He looks down at his hands, clasps them together, unclasps. Clasps. Unclasps. Runs a hand through his hair again. He broke. He betrayed the cause he loves most. He has lost himself. He has gone insane. He is trapped in a body and a mind that are no longer his own. Those are the problems, Dr. Eila. But he cannot find a way to say any of that.

Finally he shrugs. “Yeah,” he answers.

She nods, still watching him. “Anything else?”

 _Everything else_. She must read this answer on his face, because she laughs softly. “We can start there.”

Poe watches her face with bewilderment and a growing sense of wonder. She really believes that he can be fixed. He can see it in her eyes, in her smile, in her relaxed ease with him. As she continues to talk with him, she doesn’t flinch at what he says, no matter how loudly he shouts. She just watches him, and speaks quietly, and lets him be, and shows him hope for the first time since he was forced to his knees before Kylo Ren.


	5. how do we start?

By the time Poe walks slowly down the medbay hall to Finn’s room, it’s well after noon. A meddroid disappears, reappears with a hot steaming lunch. _Dr Kalonia’s orders,_ he reminds himself, and does his best to eat. He distracts himself by watching Finn’s chest rise, and fall, and rise, and fall.

He almost chokes on a bite when he looks up and sees Finn’s eyes on him, dark and silent and full. "Finn!” Poe shoves the tray aside, leans over the bed, takes Finn’s hand. “How’re you doing, buddy?”

 _Poe._ Finn’s lips shape his name again, and Poe suppresses a stab of fear and sadness that he still cannot speak. Finn shakes his head, coughs, concentrates. “Poe,” he rasps, barely more than a whisper. A shit-eating grin cracks across Poe’s face, wide enough to hurt.

“Finn! Buddy. You’re back!” The hell with caution. Poe reaches out a hand and strokes his friend’s cheek, ignoring the twinge deep in his pelvis at the feel of his hand on Finn’s skin. “How do you feel?”

Finn grimaces. “Like shit,” he manages, hoarse.

“Yeah, I bet,” Poe presses a button to summon the meddroids. “Don’t worry. They’ll fix you up with as many painkillers as you need.”

They do, but they’re accompanied by a squadron of nurses wielding probes and datapads. “Out,” one of them finally orders Poe. He’s about to protest, but he can see Finn’s eyes already sloping closed under the painkillers. “G’night, buddy. I’ll see you in the morning, yeah?”

Finn nods wearily. As he falls asleep, his lips relax into a peaceful smile. Poe stands in the doorway for a moment, transfixed by the sight, before forcing himself out of the room.

  

 

 ****Now that Finn is out of the coma, the days pass with a glorious cascade of talking, laughing, playing cards, and watching holovids. Learning about each other’s lives, likes, dislikes, ideas, and dreams. If Poe still isn’t sleeping, if the bruises under his eyes are darker every morning, if the scruff on his cheeks correlates with the severity of the previous night’s nightmare, if he keeps his eyes on the floor and his head out of the mess hall and common spaces to avoid being triggered into a panic attack—who cares? Finn is alive. Finn is here. Finn is healing.

And Rey is still on the other side of the galaxy, searching for a lost legend. Which makes Finn, for the moment, entirely Poe’s—and Poe, for the moment, entirely Finn’s.

He’s not going to waste a moment.

 

 

But right now, Finn’s asleep again. Poe’s jealous, frankly, and too restless to sit in the medbay any longer. Now that Finn’s recuperating, his mind is starting to relax back into normal patterns. First on his list: tend to _Black One._ Second: fly.

A morning’s work convinces him that _Black One_ is back to peak condition— it didn’t take a lot of heat on Starkiller, after all. Nothing so bad the mechs couldn’t fix. And he’s finally trained the mechs to leave his modifications alone, so they’re all still in place and functioning properly. Excellent.

Poe takes a moment to rest a hand against _Black One_ ’s smoothly angled nose and lean his forehead to the cold durasteel. _Thank you_. When he’s in space, it’s an extension of his body, sure, but it’s also his shield, his bodyguard, his protector. He wouldn’t be alive if not for its riveted planes.

He jogs back to the medbay to check on Finn— still asleep. Next stop: his hangar locker, where he changes quickly into his flightsuit, then back to the hangar, helmet tucked under his arm. “BB-8! We’re going to fly! Request clearance for takeoff, please. BB-8 answers with a series of reluctant beeps.

Poe stopped dead in his tracks. “What did you say?” he asks menacingly.

[I cannot request clearance for takeoff while you are still grounded.] BB-8 rolls forward from his favorite hideout underneath _Black One_.

Poe kneels slowly in front of the small droid. “Since when am I grounded?” he asks, voice low and tightly controlled.

BB-8 replays the General’s message. [Due to your unstable psychological condition, Commander Dameron, you are grounded from all flights, both sub- and super-atmo, until you are cleared by medical.]

“And why was I not told about this?” Poe can’t quite keep his voice from shaking with anger.

[Message was received twenty-three hours after returning from Starkiller Base.]

“After I— _fuck!”_ Poe punches the base of the ladder. “But I’m—” Well, not _healed_ , per se, but at least no longer passing out and hitting nurses and having panic attacks in public.

“Dameron? That you I hear cursing over there?” Poe rises and turns to face Jessika.

“Did you know about this?” he grinds through his teeth.

“About what?” Her eyes take in the flight suit, the helmet. “Oh. Yeah, I did. It’s why you haven’t been assigned to anything. Didn’t you know?”

Poe shakes his head, looks at the ground. “I haven’t— really been checking my comm much lately. I had no idea.”

Jess raises her brows. “Looks like you’ve had other things on your mind.”

Poe doesn’t bother to pretend otherwise. “I can’t be grounded. I need— _shit_ , Pava, you know I need to—”

“I know, believe me, I know. I still have scars in my brain from that time your arm was broken and they wouldn’t let you fly until it was out of the cast. _I_ didn’t even know a few of those curses, and that’s saying something. But look, you don’t have a cast this time. Just go talk to medical, prove you’re ok, and they’ll clear you to fly again.”

“Right. Ok. Yeah. I’ll go do that. No problem.” Poe turns his helmet over in his hands, opens and closes the visor.

Jess laughs at him. “It’s not going to hurt you, Dameron. You’ve been in before, we all have. They’ll just want to make sure that you’re not having any more panic attacks, that you’re able to sleep and eat and all that. You’ll do fine.”

Poe is silent. “Poe?” Jess asks softly. “You’ll do fine. Won’t you?”

Poe drags his eyes up to meets Jess’. She presses her lips tight against the terrifying emptiness in his gaze. It could have been any of them, any of the pilots, caught on Jakku like a pittin in a snaptrap. Of course the General had chosen Poe for the mission, wanting to make sure they had the best possible chance of success, but still. In another life it could have been her on the Finalizer, captured and beaten and tortured. Assumed dead. No hope of rescue.

“Fuck them,” Poe mutters. “I’m going up.”

“You go up without clearance, they’ll lock you up in the psych ward when you get back,” Jess snaps. “You really want that? They won’t even let you out to see Finn.”

Poe kicks the ladder over, and over, and over again, taking grim pleasure in the cacophonous banging.

Jess ignores this tantrum. “Dameron, you can’t let this break you,” she says, voice low and steady. “We need you. So go talk to those fucking psytechs, do what they say, sleep and eat and breathe and get the fuck better, ok? If I have to go another whole week with Snap in charge, I’m going to shoot something, and it won’t be for target practice.”

Poe still doesn’t respond. BB-8 rolls back and forth by his feet, bumping up against his boot in agreement with Jess. Poe stares at the droid, lost in thought.

“Look, Dameron, talking to them can’t be worse than not being able to fly, right?”

Now there’s a question without a good answer. Poe’s honestly not sure right now which would be worse.

“Just go talk to them, Poe—”

“Fuck off, Pava.” Poe’s voice is as flat and temp-controlled as durasteel.

Pava gives him a sardonic salute and turns on her heel. As she ducks under the neighboring  _Blue One_ ’s nose, however, she levies one parting shot: “Don’t make me call you a coward, Dameron.”

“Fuck you.” Poe’s hands clench on his helmet. When he finally puts it down in his hangar locker, his hands are crisscrossed with red trenchmarks from its metal edges.

 

 

Poe’s grateful for the chair by Finn’s bed. His knees are still shaking from the afternoon’s work with Dr. Eila, talking about his stay on the Finalizer in slow, painful intervals between bursts of panic. He doesn’t want to think about it any more, doesn’t want to see reflective black tiles and strips of white lights and a rack of interrogation needles every time he closes his eyes.

So he keeps them open instead, drawing his strength from the broad strong planes of Finn’s face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on droid gender politics: I love, love, LOVE Oscar Isaac's support for gender-neutral droids. However, both Poe and Rey clearly refer to BB-8 with male pronouns during the movie. So after some deliberation, I decided to go with canon. My personal headcanon is that Poe asked BB-8 what gender pronouns to use and BB-8 asked to be called he/him. Because Poe, as a true space gentleman, would absolutely ask first. And BB-8 would sass anyone (Rey included) who dared use the wrong pronoun.
> 
> Comments and concrits are love! Thanks so much for your incredible comments so far on all of the works in this series.
> 
> Love you all! <3


	6. studying your face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: panic attack

“Hey, buddy!” A short nap and a shower has improved Poe’s morning tremendously. He bursts into Finn’s room in the medbay with a wide grin. “How’s it going today?”

Finn laughs at him. “Do you even know how to shower, flyboy? Your hair is ridiculous. What do you have against brushes?”

“Takes too long. BB-8 said a meddroid said you were awake. I wanted to come say hi.”

“Dameron. Seriously. I was awake yesterday, too, and the day before, and most of the days before that. You’ve said hi every time. It’s really ok to spare a second for yourself, you know.” Finn shakes his head.

“I am.  Who wants to spend time brushing hair when you can talk to a hero? This is how I want to spend my seconds. But look, if it bothers you that much, why don’t you fix it yourself?” Poe flashes Finn a mischievous grin.

“Laserbrain,” Finn shakes his head. “Ok, you win. Come here.” He’ll take any excuse to touch those thick dark curls.

Finn reaches a hand up towards him, palm down, fingers outstretched, and a violent blade is invading Poe’s mind, splitting him into impotent shards, broken and desolate and alone and trapped. He struggles to get free, but his wrists and ankles and legs are trapped, pinned in place, he can’t even breathe, and the blade is twisting further into his mind, searing his memories with an insistent rage, pulling his core self apart, obliterating his bravery, resiliency, loyalty, incinerating everything that made him _Poe. Poe! Breathe! Stay calm! Stop panicking! Get back in control of yourself! You have to get back in control of yourself! Now!_

“Shh, Finn! Poe.” A quiet female voice slips into his ear. “Poe. Breathe. You’re going to be ok. Take a deep breath with me, ok? In. Two. Three. Four. Out. Two. Three. Four.” The voice keeps counting. Poe grabs onto it, nauseous and disoriented, unable to pull in a full breath. “You’re going to be ok, Poe. You’re here. You’re safe. You’re in the medbay, on D’Qar. You’re going to be ok. Breathe with me. In.”

Poe thinks it might be a nurse, standing before him, white coat and soothing voice. He can’t breathe. His whole body is shaking. He bends over, still gasping. He’s not quite sure his legs are still capable of holding him up. His vision is going dark at the edges.

“There’s a chair right behind you. Do you want to sit?”

Poe reaches for it blindly, stumbles backward. A gentle hand guides him as he collapses into it. He leans his head into his hands, exhausted. The chokehold on Poe’s lungs starts to loosen. He sucks in great gulps of air in relief. Slowly he manages to get his breathing back under control. He’s still shaking, dizzy, lost.

“Poe?” Finn’s voice is taut with fear. “ _Poe?_ ”

Poe opens his eyes and squints upwards. _Finn saw all of that_. Oh, kriff. He flaps a tired hand in his friend’s direction. “I’m fine, buddy, fine, it’s ok,” but his voice comes out in a breathy whisper, not at all convincing.

The nurse—oh, it’s the one he punched before, great, the second panic attack of his she’s had to deal with, what was her name? Shaile, he thinks, something like that—turns and smiles at Finn. “It’s called a panic attack, Finn. Scary but not life-threatening. Poe’ll be all right once he gets his breath back.”

“No, I know what it is, I’ve seen people have them before, I just—” Finn’s trying to keep the terror out of his voice, but he’s pretty sure it’s slipping out anyway. “Poe, I know you said you don’t do reconditioning here, or decommission, but—you’re sure you’re going to be ok? They’re not going to—”

Poe forces his head up, tries to form a solid sentence. “No! No, buddy. I’ll be fine. They’ll want me to go see a psytech, but I’ve been going for a while now, so nothing new there. They—kriff, I thought I was doing a little bit better. I guess not. I’m sorry you had to see that, buddy,” and his voice shakes a bit. “I’m sorry you were scared. They pass, it’s ok. It’s ok.”

“You don’t look ok to me,” Finn says.

The compassion in his voice is a little too much for Poe to handle right now. “Yeah. Well. I’m not.” Shaile must have left for a moment, because she’s returning now with a cup of water for him. He grips it in both hands so it won’t spill in his still-unsteady hands and stares at it, trying to remember how to drink.

“Do you have an idea of what triggered the attack?” Shaile asks.

Poe shakes his head. “I have no idea. I just walked into the room, I’ve done that a thousand times by now.”

“And nothing at all was different? Take me through exactly what happened.”

“I walked in, fuck, I don’t know what happened!”

“That’s ok, Poe. There might not have been a particular trigger this time.”

Poe sighs, slumps back against the chair. “I took a nap. I took a shower. I came back to the medbay. I walked in here. I said hi to Finn. Finn said hi back. I guess that’s when I panicked, because I don’t really remember what happened after that.”

“Your hair was all over the place from your shower. I laughed at you for it. You said I should fix it myself if it was bothering me. So I reached towards your hair.” Finn brings his hand up again in an unconscious mimic of his previous gesture.

Poe makes a choked noise in his throat like a dying nerf and closes his eyes, breathing hard. Finn freezes, then lowers his hand. “Oh. _Shit_.” He’s seen Ren do his work. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, Poe. I won’t do that again. My hand is down now. Hands. Both down. On the bed. Flat. Non-threatening. Very non-threatening. Friendly, in fact. Very friendly. Do you need me to keep babbling or are you going to be ok?”

Poe stares fixedly at his feet and focus on inhaling. It takes another a few breaths before his shoulders are willing to start to relax down from his ears.

“Ok. So a raised hand is a trigger?” Shaile asks.

Poe is still working on improving his internal oxygen levels.

“Not just a raised hand, I think?” Finn answers for him. “Palm down, fingers stretching forward, towards your head?”

Poe lifts his head up, then down. Force, he’s drained.

“Well, ok. I won’t do that again.”

Poe’s eyes sink tiredly into Finn’s features, take comfort from the warm glow of his skin and the open planes of his cheekbones. “I have to face it,” he states dully. “I have to. That’s what Dr. Eila— the psytech— said. That’s the only way I’ll ever get better.”

“Exactly.” Shaile smiles down at him. “You will, Poe.” Her comm beeps with an urgent medical alert. “Oh, shoot. I have to go now. But it looks like you’re able to breathe again. Do you think you’ll be all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

“Ok, great.” She pats his shoulder. “Call if you need anything.” She points at Finn. “I’ll come back later to talk with you about what to do for someone who’s having a panic attack.”

“Um— ok.”

Shaile leaves. The door swings shut behind her. Poe massages his temples, feeling an ache starting to reverberate between them. He has melted into the chair. He breathes in. He breathes out. Breathing is good, he thinks, dazed. Breathing is very good.

Finn’s still frowning, lost in thought. “What did you mean by ‘get better?’” he asks at last.

Poe sits up carefully, tilts his head in confusion. “Get better? You know. Just— not have any more panic attacks. Or, ok, I’ll probably always get a few here and there, but not as debilitating as they are right now.”

“Huh,” Finn says, eloquent as ever.

Poe watches the gears turn in his head for a few seconds before losing his patience. Although, having never had any patience in the first place, he’s not sure there was really anything to lose. “What is it, buddy?”

Finn shakes his head. “I just— I didn’t know that was a thing you could get better from.”

Poe laughs. “Well, of course, buddy! Otherwise half the fighters on this base wouldn’t be here any more.”

Finn doesn’t laugh.

“Shit,” Poe whispers. “Really?”

“One and done.” Finn’s eyes are fixed on the wall by Poe’s head.

“ _Fuck.”_ And that's yet another reason to recover: so he can blast the First Order until they can't get their hands on any more children. So they can't kill anyone else for succumbing to the wounds of a war they never chose. “Fuck them! We don't do that here, buddy.”

“Poe. I know that! What I mean is—I’ve never seen the alternative. How do you recover from something like that?”

Poe sighs. “You talk about what happened. Practice breathing deeply. Expose yourself to the things that trigger you, bit by tiny bit, until they don't trigger you anymore. Or at least not as badly.”

Finn thinks this over, nods. “Huh. Ok. I guess that makes sense. So, are you doing that? Is it helping?”

Poe raises a pair of blaster eyes towards Finn. Finn’s not intimidated. Kriff, he never is. Poe’s not sure why he still tries.

“Why aren’t you trying to recover? Talking about it, and all that.”

Poe sighs again. “Do you want to talk about reconditioning?”

A rim of white shows around Finn’s eyes.

“Exactly. I don’t want to talk about what life was like on the _Finalizer_ either.”

Finn’s quiet for a long moment. Eventually he says, “But Poe, if it’ll help you feel better—”

“I’m _fine_ , Finn,” Poe snaps. “I’ve been going to the psytechs. Talking about breathing, shit like that.”

“Does that help?”

Poe shrugs. “Yeah. I guess. Yeah, it does. Doesn’t stop anything from happening, though.”

“And you’re still not sleeping.”

“I’m sleeping!”

“Poe.” Finn’s starting to figure out what is Poe-true and what is Poe-shit. There’s been an awful lot of Poe-shit these days.

“Fuck,” Poe mumbles. “Look, I lie in a bed in a dark room. Doesn’t that count for something?”

Finn raises a pair of unimpressed brows.

“And I sleep! I think I slept at least four hours last night, and that’s a recent record.”

Finn nods wisely. “Ah. I see. That explains why the bags under your eyes changed color from black to merely purple.”

It’s a testament to Poe’s aching misery that the first retort that springs to his mind is _oh, so you’ve been studying faces, now that you’re not surrounded by helmets anymore?_ But it’s also a testament to Poe’s love for his friend that he says only, “Yeah. Guess so.” And ok, fine, it’s also a testament to Poe’s bone-deep instinct to flirt that he follows this with, “Been studying my face, have you?”

Blushes are subtle on dark skin, but Poe’s been studying Finn’s face too. Score one.

Poe bites his lip. “How’s the physio going today?”

“You’re changing the subject.” A grin is playing at the edges of Finn’s mouth. It’s been rare for him to have gotten even the slightest advantage over Poe, so he’s going to hold his position and blast away. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

But Poe doesn’t have a blaster of his own right now, doesn’t have a deflector shield, isn’t even sure if his legs are steady enough to run away. His head sinks into his hands. His shoulders sag. His back slumps.

“Poe! Poe, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry, Poe. I just—” Finn hesitates. “I’m worried about you.”

“ _You’re_ worried about me? You’re the one with the charbroiled back and fourteen new synthebrae. I’ll be fine, Finn. Focus on your own recovery.”

“Yeah, but I’m getting better. Are you?”

Poe stares at the pale green tiled floor. “I’m trying to, Finn,” he says at last. “I’m trying to.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Poe straightens in his seat, startled by the offer.

“I mean, I can’t make the nightmares go away, I get that. But I can at least try to not do anything that triggers a panic attack, at least until you’ve worked on the triggers some more with the psytechs. And Shaile said she’d come tell me what to do if that happens again. I guess I fucked up, huh?” Finn flaps a hand at Poe’s attempt to make him feel better. “I did, it was pretty clear. It’s ok. I’ll learn.”

“Thank you, Finn.” Poe’s a little embarrassed at how desperately grateful he sounds.

“Of course.” Finn’s quiet for a moment. “And, you know, if you can’t sleep, you can always come here. I— I don’t sleep so well either, some nights.” He bunches one edge of the sheet in his hands. “You—” Finn’s lips twitch up at the edges. “The nurses told me that you slept here most nights when I was in the coma. You don’t have to stop now that I’m awake.”

For a moment, Poe’s entirely speechless. “That’s—” His breath huffs out in a rush. “That’s really nice of you, Finn. Thank you.” His mouth quirks upwards. “Careful what you offer, though. I might just take you up on it.”

Finn’s face lights up. “Please do! That’s why I offered. Although—I have been wondering—” _no no no, that would be a really bad thing to ask, Finn, a terrible idea, really not a box you want to open right now, or ever, in fact, just don’t question it,_ but he has to, he can’t help it, the curiosity has been burning a slash through his brain to mirror the one on his back, “Why do you spend so much time with me?”

Poe’s hands tighten on the arms of his chair. “Do you not want me to? I—”

“No no no! It’s fine! I’m glad you do! Really glad. Thank you. Really. I was just wondering why. I mean, I know I helped you escape and all, but still. This seems a little more than simple gratitude.”

Poe’s pretty sure Finn projects some kind of anti-glib-answers field, because he can never find a snappy line fast enough to make it seem believable. Which leaves him spilling over with honesty. It’s really not a good look for him. “I guess it’s just because—I like you. I mean—I like talking with you. Spending time with you. And with Rey gone, you don’t really have anyone on this base. I don’t want you to be lonely or anything. I want to make sure you know you have friends here. One, at least. But once she’s back, of course, I’ll give the two of you all the space you need. Promise.”

Finn cocks his head at Poe. “Why? You’re welcome to hang out with us, once she’s back. I’m sure she’d like you.”

Ok, how did this get even more awkward? Please, Force, save him. “Because, you know, won’t you want to, you know…”

Finn’s brows rise again.

“ _Kriff_ , Finn, tell me you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean, Poe! Nerfherder. Ok, so I had a weird childhood, but I had one. Past. I’ve been an adult for a few years now. I know how this works. Or, you know, the basics, at least.” Finn clears his throat. “Poe. I don’t feel that way about Rey.”

“But—you were so determined to go to Starkiller to rescue her. You leapt into danger to save her life. She _kissed_ you, as she left. I saw her.” Poe’s leg is jittering beneath him.

Finn’s eyes are dark and steady on his. “Rey was the first person who looked at me like I was a human being,” he responds. “I’ll always owe her for that. Not to mention for saving my life, several times over. And, well—” He rubs an uncomfortable hand on the back of his head. “She—uh—yeah. Ok. So. She was the first woman I met who wasn’t wearing, you know.” He waves a hand over his body. “Armor. And whatnot. I mean, there were plenty of female Stormtroopers, but we had separate bunks, separate showers. I never really _saw_ one. You know. So I was, uh—attracted to her. At first. She’s definitely gorgeous. But, uh—” Finn’s eyes finally slide back to Poe’s hold. “I don’t like her like that. She’s a great person, for sure. But eventually I realized I don’t actually want to date her or anything. I just like her as a person. A friend.”

Poe blinks. “Oh. But you were, uh, attracted to her. You prefer female humans. Hmm. Ok. I’ll have to look around the base, find someone for you. There are a lot of attractive women on the base. I’m sure you’ll like one of them—”

“Poe.” Finn smacks his palm into his forehead. “I don’t prefer women. I like them, yeah, for sure. And men. Both. I don’t really have a preference. I think.”

Poe blinks again. “Oh,” he repeats.

“Poe.” Finn leans forward. A bolt of midmorning sun cuts a slash of light across his face. Poe’s distracted for a moment by the play of light and shadow, the subtle changes in the color of his skin from the crook of his neck to the curve of his cheekbones—

Finn’s bubbling laughter brings him back to reality. Poe clears his throat. “Uh—what did you say?”

“Do you have a preference?” Finn’s gaze is disarmingly intense.

Poe shifts in his seat. “Do I—uh—what? Oh. Right. Uh. No. Uh— both are good, I guess. Well, I prefer male humans, usually. But, uh—” _NOT the time to go discussing your sexual history. REALLY not the time. Shut up, Poe. Kriff, he’s right, you are a nerfherder. A nerfherder who is totally, completely, fucked right now. Offensive. This would be a good time to go on the offensive._ “Why do you ask?”

Finn doesn’t blink. “Just wondering.”

“Don’t give me that mynock shit,” Poe sits up straighter. “Why’d you ask?”

Finn shrugs. “One of the nurses asked me about you.”

“I said, cut the shit! All of the nurses know me very well. And I did _not_ mean that the way it came out,” he groans, covering his face with his hands. “I mean, they’ve all been with the Resistance a few years now. So have I. There are stories, whatever. I think I’ve got a bit of a reputation around base. They know more about my preferences than they should.”

“Huh.” Finn rubs a hand across the back of his head and nods for a moment. “Yeah, ok, they said as much. Warned me about you, in fact.”

“Kriffing busybodies,” Poe mutters. “Why’d  you ask me, then? If you already knew the answer.”

“I wanted to hear it from you. Anyway, most of it sounded too ridiculous to be true. Hundreds of lovers? Really? Never more than a night each? Come on. You’ve already spent how many nights with me?”

Poe’s breath stutters.

“I mean, ok, you haven’t actually slept with me, but still. Why?”

Blank. Just— blank. His brain is blank. Absolutely blank.

“Fucking hell, Dameron, answer the question!” Finn shouts.

“I just— you’re my buddy, Finn. You saved my life. I owe you.”

Finn stares at him. “You owe me.”

“Yeah. I mean, kriff, without you I’d be— well. You deserve to have someone by your side in all this.”

“Right.” Finn’s face is still but deadly, a lightsaber before the swing.

Poe is a steaming pile of bantha shit. He has to tell the truth. He has to say something, _now_ , before he fucks this—well, whatever this is—up any further.

“Finn. _Force_.” Poe tangles his fingers in his hair, pulls on it as though it will make his brain resume functioning. “Look, Finn,” and the words are just spilling out, he doesn’t know how to stop them any more, “I like you, ok? I really like you. But I haven’t slept more than four hours a night for the past three weeks. And when I do sleep, I wake up—well. I’ve had at least one flashback or panic attack every day. Usually more. For the first four days I wasn’t sure if or when you were going to wake up. I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving the medbay and coming back to find an empty bed. I— I’m not myself, Finn, and I don’t know what I’m doing any more. Please don’t ask me big questions.” His voice cracks. “I’m trying to get a grip on life. Reality. Safety. You—you help me do that. I feel ok, when I’m here. I feel like I might get better someday. I— I think I feel a lot of other things, too. But I don’t— I can’t—”

“It’s ok, Poe.” Finn’s voice is soft, urgent. “I’m sorry. I pushed you again. Forget I asked, please. I’m so sorry.  I’m glad you feel better around me.” He hesitates, then adds, whisper-quiet, “I feel better around you too.” He presses his hands into the mattress to stop them from shaking. “We can talk—later. When you’re feeling better. Or not. Whatever you want.”

Whatever Poe wants. Poe wants Finn. Poe wants to fly. Poe wants to sleep. Poe wants to not be afraid any more. “I’m so tired of this shit, Finn,” Poe whispers, throat burning. “I’m so tired.” He’s done. He has nothing left. Fuel gauge empty, thrusters shot to hell, S-foils crumpled into a hot pile of durasteel.

“ _Poe_.” Finn stops himself before he reaches a hand towards his friend. His eyes sting in sympathy. Isn’t there anything he can give? “Come here.” He sits up against the wall, shifts over to make room in the narrow cot. “Come sleep here, ok? Just for a little while.”

Poe shakes his head. “If I have a nightmare I’ll hit you. You don’t need any more wounds to recover from.”

Finn shrugs. “Go ahead. I’ll hit back.”

 _This is a bad idea. Isn’t it?_ It seems like it should be a bad idea. But Poe’s not really sure why anymore. He stares at his hands, mumbles, “This morning started out so nice. I took a shower and everything.”

“Good. That way you won’t stink up this cot.” Finn jerks his chin at Poe. “Let’s make this a nice afternoon.” His stomach jumps at the sudden spike of desire in Poe’s eyes. “Come on,” he repeats, before he can lose his nerve. “Plenty of room.”

Poe’s lips curve up slightly. He slumps over again, which worries Finn until he hears a boot thunk onto the floor, empty. The other one joins it. Poe stands. Not quite straight.

For a moment Finn sees him through a plasteel helmet again, a brutalized captive with nothing left to hope for. He blinks, and the vision is gone, replaced by the real Poe: warm skin, waves of thick black hair, approaching his bed.

 _Kriff,_ this was a bad idea. One of these days he’s got to relearn how to think before he acts. On the other hand, an impulse is what catapulted them out of the _Finalizer_ together, roaring freely through deep space. Finn’s been thinking about that impulse a lot lately. What it means to act according to his own desires. It’s something he plans to pursue further.

But not right now. Now, in fact, desire is something he’s trying hard—fuck you, brain, watch your choice of words—to ignore. He scoots over further, pats the mattress next to him, does his best to artfully rearrange the sheets over his lap.

Poe sits gingerly on the edge of the bed. Finn’s alarmingly close. No closer than when he was in a coma, but wow, it’s a little different to be so close to him while he’s actually _awake_. “Is this— are you sure this is ok?”

Finn’s hands twitch, wanting to touch Poe, not wanting to trigger him again. “It’s _fine_ , Poe. Stop talking and go to sleep already.” He scoots over even further to make room for his friend’s compact form. Poe slides down beside Finn, carefully not touching him. He’s pretty sure that if their skin connects, it will ignite, and then the mattress will catch on fire, and Finn’s back has taken enough heat lately. But even not touching, he can _feel_ Finn beside him, muscles and warmth and strength. He closes his eyes and wills his body not to respond. It’s embarrassingly easy, honestly. None of him has the strength to stand up straight now.

Doesn’t stop some parts from trying. He rolls onto his side, brushes up against Finn’s legs, apologizes, “Sorry, sorry—”

“It’s ok, Poe,” Finn murmurs. Broad hands weave into his hair. Poe closes his eye and leans back against Finn’s warm thighs.

He’s fucked half the base, most of the Republic’s forces, and a wide variety of other humans and aliens across the galaxy. It’s been a good time. But nothing— _nothing_ —has ever felt as intimate as this. Finn’s hands weave into his hair, massage his aching head. Poe hums in pleasure; he can’t even help it. The last thing he remembers hearing before falling into the quiet darkness of hyperspace is Finn’s soft laughter.

Finn reaches behind Poe’s head to press the _Sleeping - Do Not Disturb Unless Medically Necessary_ button before settling back against the wall. The pilot’s slim, lithe body is stretched out alongside his legs—shoulders, back, ass, thighs, calves. A series of touchpoints between their bodies burns brighter than a lightsaber ever could.

Poe’s hair, tumbling over his forehead in a cascade of dark waves, feels coarser than Finn had imagined. There’s a shock of white hair behind his temple—a scar? a genetic quirk? His nose curves slightly downwards, ends in a flat snub. His brows cut strong dark lines across his face. The lines of his chin are—for the moment—cleanly shaven, but Finn’s pretty sure he can see a faint shadow of stubble already darkening his jaw. Poe’s lips—

This is not helping his problem.

Who the fuck cares? No one’s here to see.

Poe’s lips curve in a graceful arc. Finn would really like to kiss them. He’s never kissed anyone, but he’s heard about it in brief snatches of conversation when a surveillance droid was not close enough to hear. He even saw some people kissing on the Resistance base after Takodana and before the Battle of Starkiller Base. He’s heard how it works, kissing and sex and relationships and all that. He knows the general theory. He’s just never had the chance to try it. Any of it.

He wants to. _Force,_ he wants to.

He’s brushed shoulders with other troopers. Touched the back of someone’s neck, once, disguised as an accidental movement. He’s even held hands a few times, hidden from a surveillance droid’s viewfinder. He held hands with Rey, briefly. Hugged her. Hugged Poe, far too briefly. All of those stolen moments had been at the time the most intimate touch he’d ever experienced. But this, here, now—this goes far beyond them all.

He’s been thinking about this for a long time now. Thinking about how every time he touches Poe feels like the most intimate he’s ever been touched. Thinking about how it’s not just the touch itself. Poe’s hand should be no different from Rey’s hand, Slip’s, even FN-2186, who didn’t make it past stage four of conditioning. But it is different. Because it’s not just a hand, it’s _Poe’s_ hand, Poe who rescued him, Poe who believes in him, Poe who cares about him. Nothing— _nothing—_ has ever felt as intimate as this: a pilot and an ex-stormtrooper, side by side on a narrow cot, bodies connected in one single line of fire.

Finn’s been studying Poe’s face, but he hasn’t memorized it yet.

He’s not going to waste this moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I started to describe Oscar Isaac’s face from memory and then realized that I had in my hands a _perfect_ excuse to spend an hour looking at pictures of him being incredibly gorgeous. Best. Writing. Research. EVER. 
> 
> This chapter is therefore dedicated to Oscar Isaac’s face.
> 
> Comments and concrits please! There will be at least one final chapter in this fic before I move on to finish the other works in this series...or possibly more. We'll see.
> 
> Love you all! Thanks for all of your amazing comments so far. They feed my soul <3


	7. home

It’s been a rough week, but Poe’s finally down to one nightmare per night, which is a relative miracle. He can’t say it’s really doing wonders for his disposition yet, but at least his cognitive function is approaching normal again. He’s sitting in Finn’s room in the medbay, laughing as Finn does what Poe has taken to calling the ‘physical therapy dance’: a meddroid bracing Finn’s body upright as he struggles to convince his legs to step forward across the room. He has to laugh, because when he does, Finn’s face relaxes from a tense, pained grimace to at least an attempt at a smile. Walking hurts him, Poe knows, and it scares Finn to find himself so weak. He can’t make Finn stronger any more than Finn can stop his nightmares, but they are recovering together, piece by piece.

He’s still laughing as Finn turns to walk back to the bed, sticking his tongue out at Poe, when Jess bursts in the door. “Dameron! Guess what?”

Poe turns to Pava, startled. “You’ve written an ode to my incredible leadership skills and grace in the sky?”

Jess puts a hand on her hip, not impressed. “Idiot. No, Organa wanted me to let you know that she’s promoted you to level two grounding.”

Finn has to look away from the naked relief on Poe’s face.

“But, and I quote, ‘if you even think about sticking your nose anywhere out of sub-atmo, you will be back to level one grounding until you’ve got at least two inches of beard to show for it.’”

Poe winces and rubs the prodigious stubble on his chin. “Good to hear the General’s back in action.”

Pava laughs. “When was she ever out of it? Anyway. Enjoy. I’ve got to get back to whipping the new recruits’ soft asses.” She disappears. Poe stares after her, mouth open. He’s half out of his chair before he looks back at Finn, hesitant to leave his friend behind.

Finn raises knowing brows at him. “So? Go! What are you waiting for? Get out of here.” He flicks his fingers toward the door. “I’ll still be here when you come back,” he adds, with a resigned half-smile.

Poe’s face lights up, already drunk with anticipation. “Ok. Yeah. Ok. Goodbye. I’ll be back, I will, later, see you—” He’s already halfway down the medbay hall, running at full tilt to the hangar.

His body just _fits_ in an X-wing, at one with the shape of the seat and the press of the cockpit and the grip of the controls. He’s never quite sure whether this feeling or the feeling of being deep inside a lover is better, but either way, neither one is something he’s capable of living without. Poe can see the hangar techs laughing at the way he crows with sheer glee at being back in the cockpit, but as _Black One_ lifts fluidly off the ground, not a single part of him can be bothered to care.

 _Black One_ is as smooth as ever, gliding over the lakes and swamps and forests of D’Qar’s rolling hills. He lifts up until his nose is almost— but not quite— at the upper limits of the planet’s atmosphere, then dives back down to the surface, spinning in barrel rolls until the Gs start playing tricks on his mind. He pulls out cleanly, soars up again, runs a double loop, a triple, a stall turn.

By the time the sun’s angle is approaching 10°, Poe straightens out into a relaxed orbit, gliding effortlessly around the planet. After three or four complete circumnavigations, he’s reached the point he craves: his hands, the controls, transparisteel plates, his breath in the cockpit, the earth turning beneath him, between surface and atmo, right where he belongs. He passes the controls to BB-8 for just a moment so he can close his eyes, feel the hum of the engine beneath his seat, breathe the sharp scent of motor oil and cycled air and warm steel.

He’s home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading and commenting! As this was my first entry into the world of fanfiction, I had really no idea what to expect. Your love made it an incredible experience - I think I'm hooked now. O_o Many many many thanks! 
> 
> I think this may be the last chapter in this work, but who knows? I may get inspired for another. And keep your eyes peeled for the upcoming epic adventure that has taken over my life for the past week, demanding that I write it day and night. (I may have broken Poe a little...or a lot...but don't worry, I'll put him back together again!)
> 
> Let me know what you think! Comments and concrits make my day.


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